


Wash of Black

by lyres



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Painting, Pining, Poor boys being really oblivious, Valentine's Day, and awful at communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 00:09:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3337370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyres/pseuds/lyres
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's seen Grantaire paint before, he knows it's an organic and almost instinctive act for Grantaire, or, to put it bluntly, nothing that Enjolras thinks he can handle Grantaire doing to his body.<br/>With his hands.<br/>Here's to hoping he'll mostly use brushes. </p><p>(In which there's a protest on Valentine's Day, and Grantaire agrees to paint everyone's backs to help them make a statement - which is convenient enough, only Enjolras shows up late and with a two year old crush on Grantaire, who he's convinced can't stand him. A painting session of anguish ensues)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wash of Black

**Author's Note:**

> This was prompted by some photos of people's backs used as canvasses on tumblr, and by almost freezing to death by my sister's side at a rally that led to me wondering how in the world people survive protests in winter that don't include wearing several layers of clothing. Since the answer is probably with a lot of commitment and fire, I thought the Amis were just right for that kind of thing. :)

Enjolras is the one who arrives last.

He hurried to Grantaire's and Bossuet's apartment, he actually got dangerously close to being run over at a cross-walk at one point, but still, when he gets there, everyone else has already left.

He's panting slightly when Grantaire opens the door, his hands more dried paint than anything else, his black shirt splattered with splotches of green and red.

“You missed the big rush,” Grantaire notes, smiling and without saying hello. “Someone forget to give you the memo via revolution hotline?”

Enjolras grits his teeth.

“I was caught up in something,” he says and squeezes by Grantaire into his flat.

The smell of paint is quite pungent, but Grantaire's place smells sterile normally, like nothing at all, unless he's painting. Enjolras likes the painting times better.

“And what, pray tell, might have kept you from preparing for saving the world this Valentine's Day?”

Enjolras can hear Grantaire shut the front door as he looks around in the living room. One corner is completely laid out with newspaper and a few cushions.

“Ferre and I had breakfast,” he says distractedly. “There was more to discuss than either of us had anticipated, and with him being the only one not there today...”

“Ah, right. I forgot. You all have your anti-Valentine's Day duties, he's got his. Same ordeal, different way of loathing the one day of the year dedicated to romantic love.”

Enjolras turns to look at Grantaire, who's followed him to the living room. “Valentine's Day itself is a construct that uses a profound human experience to manipulate people into pumping their money into a harmful and deeply corrupted industry – not to mention how ignorant the entire concept is of people who don't experience romantic attraction. Don't start implying that there's anything better to do on a day like this.”

Grantaire raises both hands in a defensive gesture.

“Never implied anything. Literally just used the expression.” He smirks as he examines Enjolras. “That set you off unusually quickly, are you all right?”

“Am I normally calm?” Enjolras asks. “That's news to me, coming from you.”

“Well, not calm. Maybe slightly more patient.”

Grantaire gestures towards the makeshift bed of newspaper and old pillows.

“Please, be seated. I can offer, uh...” He walks over to the fridge. “You know, I can't offer anything. It's either whisky or instant cocoa in cold milk at this point, really.”

Enjolras rubs his eyes. It's half past ten.

“Whisky,” he says, and Grantaire doesn't reply.

He pokes his head through the kitchen door a few seconds later.

“Is Combeferre dying?” he says, dead serious.

Enjolras frowns. “What, why? Of course not.”

“You're asking for a drink at ten in the morning, there has to be a reason. Anything's possible.”

He disappears into the kitchen again; Enjolras can hear the clinking of glasses.

The real reason for the whisky choice, luckily, or not so much, has nothing to do with Combeferre, and everything to do with the two of them being stuck in here together for the next, what, hour? Enjolras has no experience with whisky, but he has the impression that it might make things easier.

“I don't actually think I've ever seen you drink anything stronger than wine,” Grantaire continues. “Part of me sort of thought you just _couldn't_ , like, some medical 'any more might kill you'-condition.”

“You'd know all about that, wouldn't you,” Enjolras murmurs, thinking Grantaire won't hear. Of course, he's wrong.

“Oh, me, I'm the opposite of that.” He comes out of the kitchen with two glasses and one bottle. “Any less might kill me. Best not to take that risk.”

Something within Enjolras twitches uncomfortably. He's never liked it when Grantaire alludes to his drinking in that way, because he always sounds like he's only half-joking, and Enjolras can't stand to see or hear it; of course, it's still there if he doesn't, and that's what he can bear the least. That there's someone right there who's struggling and there's nothing that he can do.

“Santé,” Grantaire says and hands Enjolras one glass. Enjolras sips, and has to make some effort not to betray his disgust to Grantaire, who's watching closely.

“Ah, this really is a first for you, isn't it,” he says, not without glee.

Enjolras shrugs. “You didn't actually expect any different, did you?”

“Maybe part of me hoped it would finally uncover a previously unseen side of you,” Grantaire smiles, taking a drink himself. “Speaking of which, if you don't want to get to the scene of the crime once all the momentum is already gone, you may want to consider taking your shirt off; painting your back might get complicated otherwise.”

This is precisely the reason he's so pissed about being late. If the others were still here, it would probably be a _little_ weird to have Grantaire rub his hands all over Enjolras' bare skin, but like this, the thought of it alone is just terrifying.

He feels the warmth of the whisky in his throat, but it has yet to show a helpful effect on his brain.

“Smooth transition,” Enjolras mutters.

“It really was, if I do say so myself. So, Apollo, let me see you strip.”

Enjolras' breath gets stuck in his throat for a second. He has to remind himself to breathe, and he realises just then that he hasn't even gotten rid off his coat so far, which makes everything more awkward and horrible and uncomfortable.

Grantaire must sense his anguish, because he takes a 180 degree turn from the unabashed, flirty self he's only just been, briefly touches Enjolras' shoulder and then mumbles something about getting different paint before he leaves the room.

Never in his life has Enjolras gotten undressed this quickly. He tosses his coat to the side, discards his normally coveted scarf with utter carelessness, and only undoes the two top buttons of his shirt before he pulls it over his head to throw it with the coat and scarf. When Grantaire comes back – he actually took some time, which surprises Enjolras just slightly, considering how eager the guy can be to make him uncomfortable normally – Enjolras is sitting on top of a pillow, his legs crossed, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees.

“Right,” Grantaire says, and some of the lightness from earlier has disappeared from his voice. He has this special tone again, and Enjolras can imagine the look on his face, because he knows it so well. It's the expression Grantaire sometimes gets when Enjolras is only so much as in the same room as him, and it's a tormented expression, like Grantaire's in pain whenever they're together.

In turn, to Enjolras, seeing that look feels like a punch to the gut. He has no idea what he's ever done to prompt it.

“This is going to be easier if you lay down, so if you...”

Enjolras swallows hard, moving to lay on his stomach. Why did he think this was a good idea? Why would anyone think this was a good idea?

Well, in itself, it _is_ a good one. He can't even say anything against that. Cosette was the one who'd suggested participating in the protest, and Jehan had come up with the painting part. A rally against the discriminatory laws concerning domestic violence and sexual assault on Valentine's Day will make a good point, actually, and the paint is going to be exactly the kind of “artful, engaged” commitment the media is undoubtedly going to be looking for. Enjolras himself, never one to romanticise any matter through art or poetics, isn't the biggest fan of it, but if they can make it work for their cause, there is really no questioning the idea.

That's not the part that makes it so awful, though. The awful part is him and Grantaire alone in this apartment, the skin all over Enjolras' torso breaking into goosebumps at suddenly being exposed to the cool air, him unable to look Grantaire in the eyes because he's on his stomach like a kid at the paediatrician or, or God knows what else. He closes his eyes. _God_.

“This is probably going to be a little unpleasant while, well, your flesh is still crawling,” Grantaire warns.

“Sorry,” Enjolras says, probably a bit too quickly. “It's, uh. It's cold.”

“You'll be fine in a moment,” Grantaire promises. “Mind you, though, it's not going to be much warmer in the street.”

Enjolras doesn't say anything.

Grantaire has set tubes and a few jars of paint down next to him; Enjolras can see them lined up like a row of soldiers on the floor by his side. He's seen Grantaire paint before, he knows it's an organic and almost instinctive act for Grantaire, or, to put it bluntly, nothing that Enjolras thinks he can handle Grantaire doing to his body. With his hands.

Here's to hoping he'll mostly use brushes.

He doesn't. The first part of the procedure involves, apparently, spreading some kind of ointment over Enjolras' back, and Grantaire does that with his palms. It's a back massage, basically, and Enjolras, tense and ridiculously responsive to every single pressured touch, goes through some trouble trying not to give off awkward noises.

“What's that do?” he manages to ask. Anything to distract himself from this, _anything_.

“The cream?”

“Hm.”

“It helps the paint stick better, and makes it easier to remove at the same time,” Grantaire says. “Consider it a foundation, as if we're doing make-up. You've got to make sure you're working on a smoothed-out surface first; in your case, we wouldn't want to clog up those precious pores.”

He does _want_ to sound light-hearted, Enjolras thinks, but there's a strain in his voice. Is this as hard for Grantaire as it is for him? Not likely.

There aren't a lot of things that ever seem to be able to cause Grantaire to falter, and he's already painted all the others, so there's no need for him to be wavering. Strangely, he doesn't make a very confident impression. Maybe it's that thing again, that loathing that Enjolras notices seeping out of him sometimes. Enjolras never knows how he inspires it, but it's there, undeniably, and sometimes, it gets hard to bear.

Grantaire has good hands. Enjolras has always known that, but he never thought it would become such a problem. He's noticed before that Grantaire's hands are large, they're calloused and veined and capable of plucking guitar strings with a gentleness their form doesn't convey, and sometimes, in spite of himself, Enjolras catches himself following them with his gaze when Grantaire happens to be using wild gestures while ranting at him. That, actually, is one of the reasons why he's at times so unfazed with Grantaire's speeches; sometimes, if seldom, he doesn't really pay attention to them; he zones out. Always just for seconds, but it happens, and the reason is always that Grantaire distracts him otherwise.

As those hands are running across the curve of his back, Enjolras is very desperate to think of other things. Anything, really. He reads a headline of the paper on the floor in front of him upside down.

“That's incredible,” he says, and Grantaire freezes.

Silence.

“What?”

“I didn't follow that discussion, but apparently they're allowing for meat industries in Germany to kill newly hatched male chicks again,” Enjolras murmurs. The headline hits him so hard that he forgets the tension for a second, the tension that was killing him just now.

He hears Grantaire exhale.

“Oh.”

“ _Oh_? It's thousands of them, can you even imagine that; they breed them under torture and then go on and gas half of the result – not an inch of humanity, just like that.” He huffs. “They had a bill against that on the way, and the lobby must have intercepted. Fucking corrupt stone-cold killers, every single one of them.”

Grantaire chuckles, his laughter vibrating in his hands on Enjolras' back.

“Seriously?” Enjolras mutters. Grantaire has expressed one or the other affronting opinion in the past, but he's not an asshole. Normally.

“I'm not laughing about baby chicks being killed, trust me, that's as close to my heart as it is to anyone's,” Grantaire says. There's a smile in his voice again.

“So what's funny?”

“You swearing.”

Enjolras frowns. Formal as his tone may get sometimes, he never makes a point out of omitting swear words. Does he? “I swear.”

“More seldom than anyone might suppose, actually, you with your fiery speeches and your fearless leader-aesthetic. I don't think I've heard you swear once so far this year, and believe me, I've started to pay pretty close attention to it.”

Of course he has.

Grantaire notices everything, it's easy to underestimate his ability to register small details. Enjolras can't help but remember the time Grantaire was supposed to bring drinks to Feuilly's game night and brought red wine for everyone, save for one bottle of rosé, which he passed straight to Enjolras. Back then, Enjolras was too nonplussed to ask how Grantaire even knew about that preference of his, but he didn't make the mistake of assuming Grantaire was oblivious to things afterwards.

“So,” Grantaire reaches for a towel next to Enjolras and wipes the remnants of foundation cream off his hands. “What would you like, anyway? Slogan? Shocking and taboo-breaking piece of artwork?”

Enjolras hasn't actually given that any thought. “What do the others have?”

“Well, your average world-bettering protest stuff, mostly. Catchy phrases in capital letters. Stick figures in front of burning buildings symbolising whatever it is you're at the barricades for. Cosette's I'm actually kind of proud of, she's got this huge broken heart over her shoulders with flocks of people tearing on both sides; it's way too dramatic, but she can totally pull it off. I was thinking tattoos would probably work great for her, it's a shame she's not into that.” Grantaire is screwing caps off paint tubes and jars, tossing them to the side and grabbing a piece of cardboard. “What is it again you're protesting for? ...Against?”

“You don't know?” Enjolras asks. “After you've painted, what, ten people for that today?”

“Oh, I know it's about oppressive law and sexism or something, that's all I needed to know so far, because everyone brought their own ideas, I just had to translate them to paintings. I don't see you blossoming with creative suggestions any time soon, so, you know. Give me something to work with.”

Enjolras breathes. It's putting your hand into a fish bowl of piranhas, telling Grantaire about a cause. There is always something for him to sink his teeth into and take the whole thing to drag it through the mud.

“Georgette Corriveau,” he says, tapping his fingers over the newspaper in a quick rhythm. Is he nervous? This isn't good. “Her case is causing an outrage nationwide; she's been sentenced to serve seven years on the charge of battery, when it's obvious that she was trying to defend herself from an – ah!”

Grantaire giggles. Something cold just hit the centre of Enjolras' back, no warning, just a big wad of cold and disgusting coming out of nowhere.

“Sorry,” Grantaire says, not sounding sorry at all. “Just setting the colour foundation. Go on, I'm listening.”

“What colour is it?” Enjolras asks. He doesn't want to, or would be in any position to, give any artistic intake, but it would be nice to actually know what's happening on his back as it happens.

“You'll see later, won't you,” Grantaire hums.

Enjolras shivers as he feels a brush stroke along his spine, spreading the cold of the paint. In all of his time as an activist and having been chained to trees and train tracks or having knelt in the snow in silent protest in front of court rooms and town halls, he doesn't recall having ever felt this uncomfortable. It's just a combination of everything; the cool, roughed up newspaper beneath him, the sticky feeling of paint on his back, the terribly, _terribly_ distracting idea that it's Grantaire doing this to him, Grantaire's hands on his skin and Grantaire's eyes probably all over him because where the fuck else is he supposed to look and _god_ , Enjolras really doesn't want to think about it.

He doesn't have to, he remembers. There's a cause.

“Her husband is a rapist and an abuser,” he says. “Everyone knows it, it's proven, partially admitted by him, but it hasn't changed her sentence. It should have.”

“So you're protesting in support of her release? How would that change anything?”

“Pressure from the people always changes something,” Enjolras says.

They've been over this. Countless times, actually. Grantaire never ceases to come up with different arguments, but despite that, it feels as if they're dancing to the same old tune all over.

“With all your pressure, you've yet to change the law,” Grantaire says, sounding so nonchalant it's exasperating. He's always this; either wildly opposed or strangely quiet in Enjolras' presence, and for some reason, Enjolras suddenly finds that infuriating.

“You don't have to do this, you know,” he says. “It's not like we're paying or forcing you, and still you're here, up before noon, which, if I remember Bossuet's mentions of your sleeping schedule correctly, is unusual enough for you. If all of this is such a waste of time, why bother? You could be asleep or drunk off your ass or high or whatever you'd normally enjoy being right now; so are you really going through this much fucking trouble just to express your disapproval? Because, believe me, you can save the effort, your opinion of me is more than clear to everyone involved.”

Maybe he didn't mean for this to come out as sharp as it did, but there's nothing to be done to reel the words back in once he's said them. For once, he's glad he can't look at Grantaire, but he feels his hands still their movements where the brush was busy on his skin, and somehow, that's worse.

Grantaire is quiet for a few seconds. Enjolras feels every muscle in his body grow tense. Talk about fucking uncomfortable.

“Really pushing up those swearing statistics today,” Grantaire says finally.

There's something in his voice, something fragile, and hard to pin down. It makes everything a thousand times worse; Enjolras wants to slap himself.

You never know with Grantaire, you can never tell soon enough what might send him spiralling into whatever it is he's struggling with all the time. He's immovable to so many things for such a large amount of time, but then, suddenly, he's not, at all. Enjolras, instinctively, feels as if he might have something (or everything) to do with it – he just can't tell what. He doesn't know what he's doing wrong, or _how_ he even does it, because he doesn't even have a lot to do with Grantaire, does he, at least he tries to give him space because he realises time and time again that his mere presence is already doing harm.

Most of the time, he tries to remain as unaware of that as he needs to be, but he's painfully aware of it right now. He wants to jump to his feet and run to get out of this.

Silence settles in the room like a thick blanket of discomfort. Grantaire has taken up painting again, and Enjolras is sure he's changing up colours now and is creating an image for good. The strokes of the brush feel like caresses on his back, softer than he'd expected them to be, and he's not cold anymore either; agitation and the heating have both taken their part in warming him up.

He thinks that maybe, if things were different, under other circumstances, there might have been a scenario where he enjoys this, because in itself, it's not unpleasant at all. In itself, this is him near a person he craves to have close, and the act in itself, painting, is gentle and inappropriately intimate. It's far more absurd than anything he normally likes to busy his mind with: if everything was different, this could be good.

“You're really not going to say anything?” he says after a while. He has never wanted Grantaire to put up a fight more than right now. This is unbearable. He hadn't even anticipated the option of Grantaire taking those harsh words just like that; but then, he hadn't anticipated anything. He'd been rash and stupid.

Grantaire takes the brush away from Enjolras' skin; dips it in paint again. He's quiet for a while.

“I could say that you are, as always, more confident in your beliefs than you can afford to be,” he says finally. “I could say that you know nothing about my opinion of you, if what you just said is what you think. Honestly, though, I don't think there's a point in getting into those things.”

“I'm _asking_ you,” Enjolras says impatiently. He notices just now how long he's been bottling all of this up, and he hates feeling as if he's grilling Grantaire like this but after all, things staying as they are seems to be even worse. “Obviously, you have a problem with me, and unless I know about it, I can't change that. So say something.”

Grantaire laughs. Completely mirthlessly, of course, and it's not an unfamiliar laugh to Enjolras. To hear Grantaire laugh in a genuinely happy way is a rare gem.

“Jesus, Enjolras.” He's put his brush to the side, taking up the towel again; he must be cleaning his hands. “I knew you weren't generally good with touchy-feely shit, but you're being a sadist or an idiot right now, and I honestly can't tell which.”

Enjolras frowns. “What do you mean?”

Grantaire takes his glass off the floor, drinks. “You're serious about this?” he asks then, his voice rough with whisky heat. “You're sure _this_ is the moment that you're going to strike up this conversation?”

 _Well, no_ , Enjolras thinks. Obviously not. Right now, he is half-naked on the floor, completely at the mercy of Grantaire's hands, which, again, in other circumstances might have been all manner of desirable, but he's really not in the position to argue anything right now. It's ridiculous.

“You're not painting anymore,” Enjolras says.

“Give it a minute,” Grantaire mutters. “The layer has to set.”

“So I can sit up?”

“You can do whatever you like.”

The _you can get the fuck out of here, for instance_ is implied.

Enjolras scrambles to get on his feet and turns around to face Grantaire, who's kneeling on the floor. He doesn't look up for as much as a second, so Enjolras sits back down in front of him, legs crossed. It's not ideal for trying to have a proper conversation, because he still can't cover his torso, but better to sit topless and upright than lie face-down on the floor, probably. It's not like this isn't already a train wreck anyway.

“I wouldn't press this, normally,” he says. “But you probably know that.”

Grantaire looks at the piece of cardboard before him that he uses as a colour palette, and whether he's just pretending to be mixing the next colour or if it's actually relevant to the painting, Enjolras couldn't tell.

“Still don't think there's anything to be said,” Grantaire says.

“Yes, well, obviously you think that, but it's also obviously wrong. I should have asked about this long ago, because I don't know what I've done or what I'm like to make you—”

God, what way is there to make this sound anything but awful?

“Now _this_ I can't wait to hear,” Grantaire intercepts, his lips twisted into a bitter smile, his eyes still cast down. “I'm what? Go on.”

“You're strange around me,” Enjolras says frankly. “You always have been. Everyone keeps going on about how close they are to you and how reliable and what a good friend you are, but I've hardly ever seen that, because it's always the same, whenever we're so much as in a room together. You don't say a word for three hours, then you just become this loud-mouthed, obnoxious—”

“Oh, I think that sounds perfectly like me, don't you?” Grantaire snaps. “That's me, the drunk guy who gets louder and more obnoxious the later the night. Where's that discrepancy, exactly?”

Enjolras closes his eyes. Why does he have to be like this? Why can he talk to journalists and fellow protesters at rallies, and to other students in class, and normally to anyone at all arguing a point against him – and this, a face to face argument with someone he's known for several years, is where he comes apart at the seams?

“I can't...” Enjolras breathes. He has to drop the defense, or this is going to end badly, and really, that's never been what he wanted. “I don't deal well with someone resenting me,” he says. He's already naked, right? “We've all the same friends, we're bound to be spending time together, and there's probably nothing I can do so you'll loathe me any less, but just – know that I'm aware of this, and I wish I could change it.”

When he dares to look up, Grantaire's eyes are on him. It doesn't help, though; he's unreadable as ever. There might be disbelief in his eyes as well as disgust, it could be anything, although, if Enjolras didn't know better, he'd say he detected a trace of affection. Which would be exactly the least likely thing right now.

“You're an interpersonal disaster,” Grantaire says softly.

Enjolras can't help but sigh. _That's what you get_ , he thinks.

“Listen, if you have to despise me—”

“ _Despise_ you,” Grantaire says, shaking his head, and his voice sounds unsteady. “God, Enjolras, do you have any _idea_...” He drifts off, runs both hands through his hair, red paint sticks to a black curl. “You know, I'll be completely honest with you here, I didn't think that between the options of sadist and idiot, you of all people would actually turn out to be the idiot.”

None of those three sentences, or, well, two half-sentences and one whole, have made any sense. What's Enjolras supposed to do with that? “I'm not – I don't follow.”

Grantaire laughs now, again, and again, it's not happy. “No, of course you don't, I mean, I just found out you haven't been following for the past two years, so.” He twirls a hand, making an effort to appear light-hearted. Somehow it's not an improvement from when he was angry twenty seconds earlier. “We should get back to work.”

Pointedly, Enjolras crosses his arms. “No,” he says.

Grantaire frowns. “Really?”

“Tell me what's going on. I'm not going to go through another twenty minutes of lying on my stomach with unresolved issues hanging in the air.”

Grantaire opens his mouth, but Enjolras cuts in before he can say anything.

“I swear to everything that's holy, Grantaire, if you're about to find some innuendo in that sentence, you won't even live to regret it.”

Grantaire smiles. “Threats,” he says. “There's another first. You're really cracking it with the whole new year, new me- thing. A month late, maybe, but the world's got nothing on late bloomers.”

“Are you going to be serious?” Enjolras asks feebly. This is draining.

“As we both know, serious is my middle name,” Grantaire replies. “Unconventional choice, I know, but anyone can already tell from the perpetually small budget, fucked up apartment and obvious alcoholism that my parents hated me, so.”

It's still more than noticeable that he's not actually in a joking mood, and Enjolras wonders who he's really trying to bullshit with this, Enjolras or himself. Or maybe both.

“I can't imagine that you want to go on with this either,” Enjolras argues. “You can't tell me that you're pleased with things as they are, and either way, I won't stop asking about it now, so you're dragging this out for no reason.”

Grantaire rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“I don't despise you,” he says with a sigh as his hands drop into his lap again. “Is that enough?”

Enjolras shifts. “No,” he says then. “It's not... That's not an explanation.”

“But it can soothe your conscience,” Grantaire shrugs. “You can rest easy knowing that I don't resent you and that you're not actually doing anything wrong, there you have it. Problem solved, Anti-Valentine's Day saved.”

“You know that this isn't about Valentine's Day,” Enjolras furrows his brow. “Or about the protest. It's about every time we're in one place together. We have to deal with this.”

“Listen,” Grantaire says, clenching his jaw and looking away again. He seems like he wants to appear annoyed, but he looks too strained, too intense to convey it properly. “I don't know what else to say to you, and I don't know what you want to hear right now. Because honestly, you're flattering yourself – whatever might have given you that impression, it's not like I become a different person whenever your overwhelming presence enters a room, and I'm starting to feel as if I can't come up with a story that would satisfy you and the demands of your ego, because there's nothing for me to explain. There's just nothing there.”

Enjolras flinches. The words hit him in an unexpected place, even though it's bullshit, Enjolras knows it is. Maybe Grantaire's right and he really can be a bit of an interpersonal disaster, but right now, anyone could easily guess that Grantaire is lying through his teeth.

Enjolras notices just now that Grantaire's glass is empty. He tries to find Grantaire's eyes, but Grantaire averts his gaze.

What's the point to this? He might not really be able to call Grantaire his friend, but he knows him well enough to be very familiar with his obstinacy.

Without another word, Enjolras turns around, lays back down on the floor and crosses his arms in front of him to rest his head on them.

It's completely silent for a moment in which Enjolras doesn't dare to breathe. He wants to be angry or frustrated, but instead, he feels beaten down. Never for a second in all the time they've known each other, in all the time that Enjolras has been secretly coveting their moments together, has he thought that there might be a chance Grantaire might so much as begin to do the same, with them being as different as they are, and hostile as Grantaire can be towards him. This isn't a disappointment. So why does he hate hearing it out loud?

He knows, of course. What Grantaire has just said is that he is indifferent to Enjolras, and he said it with such force yet without any conviction, but still, the mere thought of it is far worse than Grantaire loathing him for whatever reason. Maybe because Enjolras always thought, despite everything, that this was their thing, the arguments, the challenging; on good days he might have called it banter. Whatever it was, it was something.

 _There's just nothing there_. Well, there isn't, then. There wasn't.

Just then, he realises that Grantaire hasn't resumed painting yet. How long have they been quiet?

He shifts and is about to say something, just to break the silence, when he feels the cool touch of a brush on his back again. In spite of himself, he twitches, then tenses, angry at himself for having slipped up.

The way Grantaire leads the brush is... off now; it's hesitant, it has nothing to do with the surety that's usually in the air between Grantaire and a canvas. Enjolras forces himself to ignore it. He has to force himself to ignore a lot of things at the moment.

Still, neither of them says anything, and Enjolras couldn't know how long they remain like this, silent and with Enjolras trying very hard to stay completely still, to breathe as shallow as possible, while Grantaire is layering paint on his back. Sometimes he thinks the brush is trembling, and imagines Grantaire's hands shaking for a brief moment, images of what he might look like behind him right now, his expression as he paints, all flash before Enjolras' eyes. He doesn't push the thought away quickly enough for it not to make something in his chest ache, but he bites his lip and keeps waiting.

It doesn't get any easier, though. The longer they stay this way, silent and with the tension palpable in the air, the more certain Enjolras is that something is wrong. Not wrong with the situation, that much was already obvious, but with Grantaire. Sometimes, Enjolras thinks he can hear his breath, uneven and rushed, and then there's the way that his brush-strokes seem to feel less and less deliberate. After a while, Enjolras is sure he can feel Grantaire shaking through the brush, his hands unsteady and trembling, and he wants to ignore it, wants to tell himself he's imagining it, but he doesn't know anything for sure anymore, so he keeps lying there, hoping all of this will be over soon.

Finally, as time stretches and nothing changes, it becomes too much. Even Enjolras can only feign so much indifference, and it's torture, being in the dark like this while catching glimpses of what might be someone he, well, _God_ , who's he kidding, someone he loves in misery, and like that, Enjolras turns his head with every intention to say something, but when he looks over his shoulder, it is just in time to catch Grantaire.

Grantaire, with one hand pressed over his mouth, shivering from the effort of keeping quiet.

Grantaire, kneeling behind him with his eyes red and almost shut, painting with one hand and silencing himself with the other.

He's crying, openly like a child and desperately holding back at the same time.

For the fraction of a moment, Enjolras doesn't believe what he's seeing, and Grantaire turns away very quickly when he sees Enjolras look over, but he doesn't turn quickly enough to hide anything at all.

He gets on his feet, stumbling, and Enjolras does the same, without having any idea how that's going to help, because now he's just standing there being useless as Grantaire has his back turned on him.

He can hear his breaths, heavy and pained, and he wants to do so many things at once – he could cross the space between them and put his arms around Grantaire, rest his head on his shoulder, tell him it's okay; he could take Grantaire's face in his hands and ask him what's wrong a thousand times – that he does nothing.

Grantaire turns back around. His eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks flushed, but dried. He looks at Enjolras for a short moment, then he gestures at Enjolras' torso with one hand.

“You're pretty much done,” he says.

Enjolras stares at him, agape.

“Grantaire—”

“You probably want to look at it,” Grantaire says. His voice is hollow.

He nods in the vague direction of the large mirror that must have been taken from a wall some place else and put on the living room floor in the corner just for today.

“You think I'm just going to ignore this?” Enjolras asks, puzzled. “You can't expect me to—”

“I'm asking you,” Grantaire says simply, echoing Enjolras' own words in a feeble voice. It sounds so new, completely unfamiliar. Enjolras has never wanted to comfort him more.

Enjolras swallows it down. The guilt, the urge to pull Grantaire close and bury his hands in his hair, the hurt that's spilling over from Grantaire's eyes and seeping into Enjolras' chest. It's what he's always done, he can do it again, bottle this up because he has to.

He turns, walking towards the mirror. Before it, he stands and turns around, looking over his shoulder to see his own back in the mirror. It's not easy, because he can't actually turn his head very far at the moment, a tension owed to late nights writing essay outlines that was only in part eased by Grantaire's – probably unwitting – back rub. He can catch a heavy contrast between large red and black spaces, there's some white splattered in, and apparently, Grantaire notices his struggle.

“Here,” he says, walking over to the couch and grabbing something and it looks terribly absurd because he's acting as if everything's fine, but his rash movements alone betray him.

He holds up hand-held mirror and waves his other hand.

“Turn.”

Enjolras does, facing himself in the mirror.

Grantaire steps behind him, holding his own mirror up like a hairdresser would so that Enjolras can see his back in the mirror's reflection. He doesn't look at it first, his eyes fixed on Grantaire's image, their looks meeting in the glass. Grantaire raises both eyebrows, a silent demand.

Enjolras feels a pull in his chest, but there's no point, and this is simply going to have to enter history as the most uncomfortable Saturday morning ever that they'll never speak about again, and so he looks at his back.

The black part is the silhouette of a person, small and at the centre of his back, and the ground the figure is standing expands to cover his skin down to his hips in black. White words written are there in thin letters, and he remembers Grantaire writing them, because it was a fine brush and tickled him in the most tortuous way imaginable. They're words of fear, guilt, anguish.

Above the figure, what would be the sky is blood red, and there are white words in it as well, scattered like clouds of letters, and they're slurs, accusations, insults, some of them making their way into the centre of the black silhouette in thin lines, like arrows piercing its skin.

Enjolras stares.

It's honest in a brutal way, it has nothing of the softness that Grantaire described in Cosette's piece and that Enjolras had been fearing. It is, in a way that completely corresponds with Enjolras' ideas, perfect.

In the right-hand corner, just next to the right dimple of his back, Grantaire has put his signature, a single _R_ in slightly bolder lines.

 

There's this thing about Enjolras and art.

The only times where he ever feels as if he might be a slight misfit in the group is when the others get all passionate over the arts, because most of them just _are_ ; they all love either music, literature or art and can have the most animated and heated discussions about any of those things, and Enjolras has never felt the same connection. He can look at pieces of art and feel nothing, sometimes it even happens with music which should make everyone feel something, and if you put him in front of a painting and asked him to describe what it does to him, in most cases he wouldn't have words.

He doesn't have words now, either, but he does feel something and he looks up to find Grantaire's eyes again. He sees them and how fixed they are on his, and Grantaire doesn't look sure; he looks scared, maybe, a little pained, but there's something else that Enjolras thinks he might be understanding for the first time, because this is the first time he sees the pain in Grantaire's look and recognizes it in his very own – recognizes it as longing.

 _Oh_ , he thinks. And he thinks that Grantaire is still right behind him and so close that he can actually feel his breath on the back of his neck, and he thinks of the times Grantaire has remembered things about him that he didn't think anyone would remember, and he thinks of Grantaire's countless provocations turning into flirtations turning into quiet shyness. _Oh_.

Before he can talk himself out of it, acting on instinct, he reaches behind him and grabs Grantaire's free hand that's dangling uselessly at his right side. It's warm and rough and he's pretty sure that he can feel Grantaire tense up at his touch, and then he hears the mirror clattering on the ground as Grantaire drops it and it falls down between them.

Grantaire is shaky, and his look in the mirror is heartbreaking. There's only disbelief.

“You don't despise me, then,” Enjolras manages to say, fully realising a moment later what a terrible thing to say that is, but it's a realisation that he can't keep in and his hand is still locked with Grantaire's, and somehow, he feels as if that fact alone softens the words.

Grantaire brings his left hand up, shivering and unsure as it briefly brushes Enjolras' back, and places it on his shoulder. He leans forward; Enjolras stops looking at him in the mirror and instead slightly turns his head as Grantaire comes closer, lowering his head a little, eyes flicking up to Enjolras again and again, as if he's asking Enjolras' permission for something. Enjolras swallows thickly. His left hand reaches back as well, it doesn't even occur to him how ridiculous they must look, and he rests it on the back of Grantaire's neck, as if to say, _it's okay, I want you there, I want whatever you do, for God's sake, just do it_.

Grantaire's curls brush Enjolras' jaw as he leans down and touches Enjolras' shoulder with his lips, just briefly, the kiss soft and venerating.

Enjolras' eyes fall shut, and he forgets how to breathe for a moment. Grantaire's breath, meanwhile, is warm and close and ghosting over his skin.

Maybe it's because he's been waiting for this so long that he doesn't want to move an inch, but he hasn't really been waiting, because there wasn't ever any anticipation at all, he might have been craving, longing, certainly imagining this more than he ever thought he could admit to himself, and for a bit, he gets lost in the moment.

When Grantaire's fingers twitch on his shoulder, Enjolras' desire to savour this softness turns into wild impatience, and he turns around, their hands parting, and sees Grantaire gaze at him with marvel, dark eyes glossed over.

Straining against the actual urgency he feels, Enjolras reaches for him carefully, forearms resting on Grantaire's shoulders as he looks him in the eye, and oh, it feels good to do this without thinking he had better look away, without a lingering sense of guilt or shame.

Grantaire seems unsure of what to do with his hands, both of them lost at his sides mid-air, but he gives a minuscule nod of the head that's more than just a yes, it's a _please, for everything's sake_ , so Enjolras pulls him close, both arms settling tight around Grantaire's shoulders, and their lips meet.

A whimpering sound escapes Grantaire and his hands fly up, as if he's still surprised. Helpless, they hover around Enjolras' face for a second before they move, one to push into Enjolras' curls, one to settle firmly on the back of his neck.

Enjolras hums into the kiss; Grantaire's hands feel warm and he tastes earthy and good and like having somehow managed to put this off for way too fucking long.

But it's worth it, something Enjolras had never thought was possible, this has somehow been worth it, it's worth those past years of keeping his feelings in check in somewhat painful ways, it's worth so much, having Grantaire moving his lips against Enjolras', having his scruff scrape Enjolras' skin very slightly, feeling his hands as they hold on to him for dear life. It's worth the world.

They hardly separate when their lips part, their foreheads touching, Grantaire's hand slipped from the back of Enjolras' neck to the side of it, his thumb softly stroking his jaw.

Enjolras, mesmerised, looks him in the eyes and can't believe or comprehend the reverence he sees there or how he deserves it; all he hopes is that he can convey the same.

A thought crosses his mind suddenly, and in spite of himself, Enjolras can't help but laugh. Grantaire, still a mess, stares in horror.

“Oh, God, I'm sorry,” Enjolras says and moves his hand to push Grantaire's hair out of his eyes. There's still paint in some of the strands, he notices, and smiles.

“I just – it just occurred to me that, uh. This. This is happening today.”

Grantaire squints. It's new to see him speechless, Enjolras thinks. The good kind of new, the best kind.

“Valentine's Day,” Enjolras reminds him, and that's when Grantaire smiles, and it's warm and genuine, the rarest gem.

“You know, I've always thought that you might come to embrace Valentinius as a character,” he says softly. “In some legends, he's a total rebel in his own way. Marrying couples against the emperor's will. You know, raging against the machine. First century Anno Domini style.”

Enjolras curls his fingers in Grantaire's hair. His heartbeat has started really stepping up its game about five minutes ago, and hasn't slowed down. “You've always thought?”

“Well.” Grantaire lowers his eyes. “No use in pretending now, is there? Although I wasn't really making much of an effort to pretend before, so.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I don't believe that.”

Grantaire laughs. “Oh, God. Enjolras, everyone knows.”

“What? _How_?”

“I mean, not about, you know, not about this, just. Me. They all know about me. I don't think anyone has ever... not known. Save for you. But all the others, they definitely do.”

The others. Right. Enjolras blinks. There's a rally.

Grantaire smiles warmly, his thumb still near Enjolras' cheek. “It's fine,” he says. “I wouldn't have guessed in a million years that you weren't the only oblivious one.”

With all of Grantaire's behaviour falling into place now, Enjolras doesn't have trouble believing that. He leans in and kisses Grantaire's forehead very lightly. “I'm sorry it took us so long to catch on,” he murmurs.

Grantaire pulls him closer, mumbling something like _'s okay_.

And it is, it really is. It's okay now. They've got time to make up for what's lost. And as bumpy and messy and unlikely this may have been so far, for some reason, Enjolras feels sure they'll make good use of it.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So! I've never written for these two before, nor have I put any fic at all online ever since I was, I don't know, 13? The whole Les Mis fandom is still very (I'm talking like a 1 month old newly-sparked interested in the whole matter) new to me, so yeah, uh. This was an adventure. 
> 
> Awkward language situations are probably owed to me not being a native speaker ~~and possibly me not being a very good editor who blames mistakes on not being a native speaker~~. I'm really really sorry for anything that sounds off or weird or is just plain wrong; it's not fun to enjoy writing in a second language more than writing in your first, but unfortunately, I'm a goner as far as that's concerned, so I'll just have to keep doing it. 
> 
> The title is taken from the quote "A painter should begin every canvas with a wash of black, because all things in nature are dark except where exposed by the light", which is apparently something that da Vinci said (not sure how reliable that source is tbh). I thought it fit quite well with the idea of things in the dark and being uncovered etc., but honestly, I'm just awful with titles and was very desperate for a quote to help out.
> 
> Georgette Corriveau isn't a real person, or she might be, somewhere, but there isn't an actual case with someone of her name, it was just a sort of case that I'd come across in the newspaper. The same goes for the chicken thing that E encounters, and which apparently got to me so much when I read it that I had to work through it this way. 
> 
> Finally, I didn't mean for this to turn out as angsty as it did. That's what you get for listening to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZXe5Xj91J4Q) [stuff](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fHZ0cqAODeg) on repeat while writing, probably? I hope it was acceptable anyway. Thank you very much for reading. ♥


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